The World's A Stage
by FlickerAndFade
Summary: The illegitimate child of the President of the United States could expect to be condemned to a lifetime of ridicule and deprecation. It was a fate casted by the world. However, this is the story of how one little girl, daughter of the nation's 44th president, challenged her prophecy and charmed her way into the hearts across the globe.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** New story! Yay! Also, my first multi-chaptered story. I want to clarify though, that this is more like a collection of short stories, an anthology. This first installment is only meant to be a brief introduction to Olivia and Fitz's new daughter. After this, the chapters will be much more interesting... at least I hope! ;)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Scandal.

**Arc One. Enter: Pretty Girl.**

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The article's purpose was to comment on fashion styles for the upcoming fall. Nothing more. The picture that was included was only supposed to be a visual guide as to what the author was suggesting. "Do not be afraid to add a splash of color", "less is more", "layering is key", so on and so forth. Innocent. It was supposed to be innocent.

It was _not_, that meant, supposed to pose a threat to the free world. Because that would not be innocent.

However…

The dress featured in the article was a smooth alabaster white, absolutely arresting. With the faint shimmer and gloss of the fabric, it could've easily been lost amid a field of snow. The cut was a professional fit-and-flare, the neckline curving to the woman's collarbone and the bottom hem swaying just below her kneecaps. The fabric was comprised of thick, stiff cotton peeping out beneath a layer of fine lace, and while it was taut against the woman's torso, columns of impossibly long pleats began at the end of her ribcage. It was a gorgeous piece of work. However, it was not so much so as to distract from the wearer's own beauty.

The wearer of the dress, the woman in the photograph, was the true masterpiece. In mid-stride down the busy D.C. streets, donning both a four-month-old baby on her hip and a determined look on her face, this woman was stunning under the late summer sun. From her glowing ebony skin to the few ink black curls that escaped her ponytail to frame her face – she was the embodiment of maternal bliss. The protective hold that she had around her infant child revealed all the ardor that her face wasn't. It was clear that she loved her baby.

In this particular photo, the said baby's front was pressed against her mother's chest, her tiny head resting against her mother's shoulder. No one looking at this picture would be able to see the entirety of her small face, but what could be seen was still enough to upset the one Mellie Grant. A harsh sneer painted itself onto her well-manicured face as she studied the tiny being that, even at four months of age, was somehow powerful enough to influence the on goings at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

McKenna Marlöse Pope, born April 11th, was very much her father's daughter. With her warm hazelnut complexion and the beginnings of maple ringlets, she exhibited traits that were more telling of her European descent than they were of her Black. There were also those signature slate gray eyes that were bestowed upon her, serving as irrefutable proof of her paternal parentage. They were round and expressive, a halting contrast against her golden skin. It was as if this was the little girl's way of telling the entire world that her father was President Fitzgerald Grant III, dare anyone ever doubt it.

Though, doubting McKenna Pope's parentage was something that Mellie hoped the world was actually doing – and would continue to do for the next 5 or 6 years.

At present, the only people that knew about the existence of a lovechild between her husband and Olivia Pope were herself, Cyrus, and of course, _her husband and Olivia Pope_. There was also the likely chance that some of the Secret Service men closer to Fitz, like Hal and Tom, had drawn conclusions based on the snippets that they overheard every day. Maybe even the other staff members that were often in close proximity.

Mellie was both surprised and relieved that her children were two of the many people that appeared to remain oblivious to the existence of their… _half-sibling _(she still had difficulty addressing the infant as such). She was especially surprised seeing as both Karen and Jerry had seen multiple photographs of this baby in online articles and the like (apparently, Olivia Pope was some sort of DC celebrity, known for working on high profile cases for equally high profile people). Jerry's state of oblivion was somewhat excusable due to the fact that he was all of 9 years old. However, Karen was different.

Even at 13 years old, Mellie knew that her daughter was exceedingly receptive. Karen had never inquired as to why her parents were so distant toward one another, but Mellie knew that her daughter had to have noticed. She was too intelligent to not have. They were never the family to sit down and talk out their issues, thus, Mellie figured that her daughter must have adopted this habit of internalizing her problems. So even though she woke up every day only to be bombarded by more and more evidence of her parents' loveless marriage, she didn't say anything. Mellie was positive that unless prompted to do so, Karen never would.

Maybe the thought _had_ crossed her daughter's mind, but her still too innocent 13 year old had dismissed it. Karen, though highly intelligent for her age, would not be able to fully understand the weight of the truth – if she had indeed contemplated it. Her father having a baby with someone that wasn't her mother would be inconceivable, _silly _even, in a 13 year old's eyes. Especially since they were still married. It was similar to kids imagining that they had superpowers, but knowing all the while that it could never actually be true.

"I think that she looks just like Livy."

"Nuh-uh! She doesn't look _anything_ like Livy!"

"Says the boy who learned to dress himself all of 2 days ago! Those are definitely Livy's lips. And look at her nose! Liv's. Again!"

"But, she's just so…"

"_What_?"

"She's so… well, _pale_."

Mellie tore her eyes from the photograph and delivered a reprimanding look to her son. The three of them were in the back of the car and seated in the order of first herself, Karen in the middle, and then Jerry on the other side of his sister. Both of them were straining against their seatbelts, trying to see the latest photograph of whom they didn't know was their father's secret child.

"Jerry, Sweetie, don't call her 'pale'. Say that she is 'fair'," Mellie corrected with a tight smile on her lips.

"Why can't I just say 'pale'?"

"Because it sounds rude. Your father and I are raising you two to be polite and well-spoken children."

"Fine," she heard her 9 year old grumble in resignation. "She's 'fair'."

"That's much better, thank you," she responded with a curt smile.

Mellie handed Karen the photograph so that they could continue to fawn over "Livy's baby" amongst themselves. The two kids cried out in delight and immediately hunched over the photo as if they were dissecting it with a magnifying glass.

"_When are we going to be able to meet her_?" Karen whined in frustration.

"Yeah, dad promised that he'd get Liv to come see us soon…" Jerry grumbled.

Mellie looked down at the two children and took in their disgruntled expressions. Their dark brown eyebrows were furrowed and their tiny mouths downturned at the corners. As stoic a woman that Mellie recognized herself to be, it still unsettled her to see her children this forlorn. However, she'd rather they experience this kind of hurt over and over again as opposed to what would come when they finally found out who McKenna truly was to them.

"Liv's a very busy woman," was all that Mellie could conjure up to say. "And we are very busy people ourselves."

"She's _always _been a busy woman, Mother. But she somehow had time for us before. What's so different now?"

"She has a baby now, Karen. She's a new mother."

While Mellie knew that what she told her daughter was not a lie, she also knew that it was not necessarily true. Olivia wasn't distancing herself just because she had a baby. It was because she'd had the _P__resident of the United States'_ baby.

And that made all the difference.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So here it is, first update (woohoo!)! This is a milstone for me already seeing as my other stories are one-shots. Lol! To all of you that reviewed: I can't even put my gratitude into words. There are just so many, _too_ many feels! Really, you all are awesome. Your feedback fuels my writing. Hope you enjoy what I have for you this time around. Whether you do or don't, feel free send a review my way! Honesty is welcome; it'll only make me better. Oh and by the way, I know that this is kind of jumping right into the middle of things, but I assure you all that everything will eventually be explained. So hold tight! :)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Scandal.

**Arc Two, Part One. Mama, Don't Preach.**

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Fitz walked out onto the terrace of his childhood home to find the Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II seated at the head of a sprawling banquet of food. The surface of their glass dining table was teeming with the usual breakfast assortment, reminding Fitz of how when he was younger, his mother would always insist on having Anya prepare enough food for a small army, be there only the 4 of them dining – her, his father, his sister and himself – or additional guests. On this particular late summer morning, the Grants' devout maid of over 40 years did not disappoint.

All of the dishes were served on the same silver platters from his childhood. They were placed impossibly close together, rim to rim, no doubt in order to fit the maximum number of dishes on the table. There was every food that one could possibly desire. Everything from fresh strawberries, cheese Danishes, and spiraled ham to spice muffins, yogurt, and blackberry pie. Omelets, diced potatoes, pastries. Literally everything was there.

Fitz, following the etiquette that he was taught as a little boy, first kissed his mother on the cheek "good morning" before sitting down in the first chair to her left. He was helping himself to a bagel and dressing it with various toppings when his mother gave a soft yet distinguished cough, something she frequently did to signal that she was about to speak. Fitz had learned through forty three years of being her son that the topic of conversation always proved itself to be… well, scandalous.

He waited a few seconds for her to start and then waited again, supposing that she had to finish swallowing her tea, but after what had become a minute of waiting, his mother still hadn't said anything. This caused an awkward silence to ensue as they quietly ate on and it was very clear to Fitz where it was coming from. His mother wanted to know more about the houseguests that had yet to arrive to breakfast while, at the same time, he knew an explanation was owed yet had no idea how to begin.

Thankfully, his mother's patience had worn away much sooner than his resolve.

"So, Fitzgerald," she began and then took an effective paused. "Are you going to share your plans with your dear old mother or are you going to make her wait yet _another_ day to hear them?"

Fitz placed the remainder of his bagel down on his saucer. He then wiped his mouth with his napkin before leaning back in his chair. This was the same position that he would assume when Cyrus was about to go on one of his diatribes. Fitz was poised and ready for the oncoming attack.

"So you _are_ choosing to torture your mother?" Mrs. Grant asked upon seeing that her son wasn't making an effort to answer.

"No. I'd just rather hear why you _think_ I'm visiting. Surely, you've already made some assumptions."

"I've drawn some conclusions, yes. But only because you _forced _me to by not telling me anything. Anyway, I only base those conclusions on what I see and one cannot help what one sees."

"Really?" he stated more than asked. "So then tell me, mother, what have you 'seen'?"

"It's of no matter," she quipped back.

"Ah, but it is to _me_."

Silence reigned over the terrace for the second time since Fitz had joined the table. Though this time, it was not so much awkward as it was heated and he had to fight back the smile that threatened to break at the sight of his mother so uncomfortable. He could tell by the slow sip that she was taking from her teacup that she was debating whether or not to give in to his goading. Fitz's eyes were fastened cold on her, merely trying to help her inevitable fold along.

His mother's eyes were steadily averting his and her lips were drawn taut – very telling body language. He was so certain that he had her… which is why he was caught off guard by the sudden turn in events.

Fitz watched as his mother's contemplation broke and she looked up again. The sparkle that seemed to always be present in her gray eyes brightened to the point where it was blinding. Mischievous even. Her lips pulled themselves into one of her most warm and genuine of smiles. Fitz noticed that she was directing it at a place beyond where he was sitting.

"Ah!" she announced to whom he assumed was no one in particular. "So The Great Olivia Pope finally rises! I've been waiting for you to join us, dear."

Fitz felt himself involuntarily jump up erect in his chair. He braced both hands on the wicker armrests and pushed himself up so that he was half-standing. However, with one quick cut of the eyes and curt smile from their new guest, he was easing himself right back down. And it was from his seat that he froze and stared - just stared, _really _stared – at her. The woman that had his heart at her disposal. The love of his life. Carrying the tiny being who would tether them together for the rest of their lives.

Fitz found that he literally could not breathe as Olivia approached the table. His heart was punching a crater into his breastplate and his stomach was fluttering as if he was in free fall. Heat flooded into very fold, bend, and divot of his body and a cold sweat broke over every plane. His limbs suddenly tingled and itched for him to move them. Three years ago he would have called it anxiety, but he was a much smarter man now.

He was in love. He was so infatuated with Olivia Pope that it reduced him to behaving like a squirrely ten-year-old boy. She was the girl his friends had dared him to kiss during recess. She was the girl whose ponytails he would tug because it wasn't cool to tell her that her hair was the prettiest he had ever seen. She was also the girl that he would tease and call names so that no one would catch on to just how much he wanted to hold her hand. She would've been that girl for him back then, just like she was that woman for him now.

Fitz's eyes remained on Olivia even as she bent over and politely pecked his mother on the cheeks. He noticed the effort that she was putting into not looking at him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grant," she said after pulling away.

She eased herself into the chair across from him before she finally gave an acknowledging smile. Though the expression failed to reach her eyes.

"Mr. President," she greeted coolly.

…**..**

Olivia had detected the tension between mother and son as soon as she had entered the outdoor area. It hit her as hard as only a boulder could and faster than the morning air. She worried about what she had just entered into because although she was a professional "fixer", her skills could not be wielded in such a personal situation as the one she was in this morning.

However, only moments later, when the Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II started up easy conversation with her, Olivia was forced to assume that the previous tension in the atmosphere had diffused itself. So she sat down at the table with McKenna propped up in her lap, indulged in easy conversation with the woman that she had met a handful of times on the campaign trail, and afforded any remaining energy toward ignoring the man across from her.

One look at that man, and their plans for this morning would probably have been ruined.

She chatted on. They had a nice little rhythm going when they were cut off by the third adult party.

"You're not eating?"

Olivia did not need to look at Fitz to know that the question was directed at her, but she did so anyway. His eyes were hard and steely, not so much angry as they were authoritative. She held the stare to ensure that he would not notice her intimidation.

"No, I'm not," she deadpanned back.

"_Why_ are you not eating?" he challenged.

"I'm not hungry."

"_Why_ aren't you hungry?"

"Is an explanation really necessary for one's lack of hunger?"

Fitz nodded at the baby who, intrigued by what was going on between her parents, was sitting mute. Her rosy lips were shaped in a curious little "o" and her round, almond-shaped eyes kept shifting from her mother, to her father, and back up at her mother again. It was as if she was personally invested in who was going to win this stand-off.

"Give her to me. I'll hold her while you eat."

He didn't even wait for her to acquiesce before getting up and walking around the table – not that her protests would have necessarily stopped him anyway. Fitz stood right beside her chair and loomed over her, his arms outstretched in want of his daughter.

Olivia, as she looked up at him, could no longer hide how unnerved she was.

"Mr. President…" she tried.

"Olivia," he countered.

It was impossible for all three of the adults to miss the four-month-old's gummy grin as Fitz swept her up. The giggles did not go unnoticed either as he took a seat next to Olivia and began to fly her up and down as if she was bouncing across the moon.

"Hi, pretty girl," she heard him sing to her once she was suspended in front of his face.

Olivia - wanting to be angry with Fitz yet completely enamored by the sight of the father-daughter bonding - smiled on as another fit of giggles erupted from the joyful baby. It was when Fitz began attacking her with kisses and she began squealing that Olivia forced herself to look away in order to prevent from being any more overwhelmed. She decided to obey Fitz's orders and piled her plate with fruit.

She had gotten only a couple bites down when the woman beside her, who she realized had not said a word in over five minutes, smiled at her. Olivia wished it wasn't there, but an all-too-knowing glimmer was present in the woman's eyes. She hoped though that the Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II was knowledgeable about things not pertaining to her daughter's parentage. It just made Olivia a bit more comfortable and it gave a bit more reason to their visit.

However, her gut was telling her that discomfort was what was fated for her. It was telling her that the woman beside her knew all the facts that a mother should know about their son. She knew why they were sitting at her breakfast table this morning. She knew.

"My son is right, you know. Your daughter is a _very_ pretty girl."

Olivia watched the wise woman watch _her_ over the brim of her teacup as she took another sip. She only allowed herself to politely smile back, wanting to tread carefully. It was clear that this woman could not be underestimated.

"Thank you."

"Yes… yes…" the older woman mused. "Looks just like her mother…"

"Except for those eyes.

This time, Olivia didn't respond. She merely sat frozen in her place and allowed the other woman to continue to spin her web because it was clear where this conversation was headed. It was clear what she knew and what she was going to verbalize. The truth was coming out and Olivia would not – _could_ not – bring herself to blatantly lie about a matter as weighty and personal as the one that was surfacing.

So she allowed Mrs. Grant to continue. She temporarily shared her white hat.

"A little history, Olivia: I inherited my own eyes from my father, who inherited his from his mother. As you can see, I passed them down to Fitzgerald and he, in turn, gave them to his daughter – my granddaughter – Karen…"

Olivia didn't know when exactly Fitz began listening in on the conversation, but it was clear that he was now. Beside her, he was noticeably quiet and still, no doubt hanging on to his mother's every word. McKenna, for her part, was completely oblivious to what was unfolding between her parents and her soon-to-be-revealed grandmother.

"So I'm sure you can understand how _intriguing _it is to me to see your daughter bearing the one feature that is so unique to my family.

"You _can_ understand, can't you dear?"

Olivia forced herself to give a brief smile. "Yes. Of course."

"Mother," Fitz spoke up from beside her, surprisingly calm - almost _suspiciously _calm. "What I, for one, can't understand is your point. Were you planning on going somewhere with your 'little history'?"

"My point, you ask?"

Olivia watched as the older woman took on an impressed look. Her snowy white eyebrows were arched high and her thin lips were upturned at the corners.

"Yes mother, your point," Fitz breathed in exasperation.

"My point is, Fitzgerald…"

Suddenly, the older woman slammed her teacup down on the table and scowled. Olivia felt her breath catch in her throat at the surprisingly sudden and hostile display.

"For Christ's sake!" she exclaimed. "How much longer do I have to pretend not to be able to see through this little charade of yours?

"I'm not the American public! I'm your mother! It's my _duty_ to recognize you in this little girl. She's your daughter, my granddaughter. I knew and I've known for a while. So save whatever speech you prepared in order to 'break this news to me'. I know!"

A brief moment of silence elapsed as Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II regained her composure. All that Olivia could find it in herself to do was gape at the older woman. Beside her, Fitz was still unfazed - and that _still_ seemed odd.

"Now," the not-so-newly exposed grandmother chirped. "Can I _finally _hold my grandchild?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Sooo, it's definitely been a while since my last update. My profuse apologies! I went traveling right after posting the last chapter and ended up being away from computer access for about a week. (Meep.) I hope that the length of this update will make up for it though! I think it's almost double the previous one. Thank you to those who reviewed! My appreciation is boundless!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Scandal.

**Arc Two, Part Two. Mama, Don't Preach.**

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"She _knew_…"

"Olivia –"

"_How_ did she know?"

"Like she explained herself - she's my mother."

"…."

"You can look me in the eye for as long as you want, but for the sake of time, I'm just going to make it clear: I did _not_ tell her."

They were standing alone in his parents' kitchen, separated by the girth of the center island. On his respective side, Fitz was comfortably leaned back against the edge of the stovetop. He had his arms crossed and an amused smile on his face, watching the spectacle that Olivia was making on her own side of the island.

She was pacing back and forth along the width of the countertop. The only times that she would break her stride were when she, apparently bored of arguing with herself, directed her questioning at Fitz - who, in turn, would humor her and then silently laugh to himself after she had turned away again. It was entertaining for him to see her this anxious, as it didn't happen too often.

"Olivia," he finally sighed. "I didn't bring you in here to discuss what my mother knows or doesn't know."

She froze and looked at him. "Then what? Why did you bring me in here?"

"Because…" Fitz shoved his hands in his pockets and slowly began to amble toward her. "I have something to say to you and I preferred to say it in private."

Olivia's dark brown orbs were fastened on him, watching his approach and trying to decipher from it his intentions. He could already see the gears in her mind grinding into motion; he could see her concocting a counterattack. Every step that Fitz took toward Olivia was slow and deliberate. He soon had her trapped, visibly unnerved, between the counter and his body.

"I want to ask you something," he stated softly.

"Yes?" She was stiff and her response was hurried, as if there was a threat of her stuttering had she said it any slower.

He paused. "Spend the afternoon with me."

"No."

"_No_?" he repeated, unbelieving. "Why not?"

She tried to duck around him, but Fitz immediately cut her off with one, definitive sidestep. She made to move around him again and he snatched up the waist of her heather gray sweater. Immediately, she turned around and flashed him an indignant look.

"Why not?" he repeated.

"Because we aren't together –"

"Olivia, I know that. When I ask you to spend the afternoon with me, I mean you _and our daughter_."

"What you're doing isn't asking, but commanding me."

"Well, what about what _you're_ doing? Trying to avoid answering me," he countered.

They were at a mild stand-off, neither one of them saying anything. It was just his eyes barreling down on hers and his hand fastened to her waist; there was nothing else between them, nothing else connecting them.

Fitz released his grip on her sweater and sighed. Her eyes suddenly softened.

"Just come to me, Olivia," he breathed in exasperation. It was almost a plea.

"I can't," she admitted more meekly.

"Why not? I've already told you that my intentions are good."

"I know, but…." She paused. "Your mother wants to have a talk with me."

He looked through the kitchen's sliding glass doors and directly at said mother. She was still sitting at the breakfast table, now conversing with the smiling infant in her lap. Fitz was genuinely surprised by this sight and it was not because of how well she was getting along with her new granddaughter; it was because, when he looked up, he fully expected his mother to be gazing right back at him with a calculating smirk on her face.

Whether or not she was indeed smiling up at him made no difference. Eleanor Grant was up to something.

"What's wrong?" Olivia demanded.

Fitz didn't answer her. Instead, he gave her one last look before making a start for the back doors.

"Stay here," he left her with.

He had barely tossed the words over his shoulder before he was slamming the door shut behind him and bounding toward the conniving woman whom he was often disappointed in having to call his mother. Fitz reached the head of the table in impressive time and while he originally planned to yell and seethe and generally carry out a big production, he remembered McKenna. He didn't want to scare her.

The four-month-old was perched in her grandmother's lap, quietly looking on as her elder fussed with the bottom hem of her little dress. From what Fitz could see, there was nothing that needed to be tended to. Nevertheless, there was Eleanor, smoothing a pleat here and a button there. He knew his mother well enough though to recognize what she was truly doing.

"You want to talk with Olivia?" he asked, feeling a bit more calm and controlled.

"Oh, Fitzgerald!" his mother jumped and cried out in – what was presumably feigned - surprise.

When McKenna heard his voice, she looked over at him and began squealing. He smiled back at her and immediately, her excitement grew louder. Fitz picked her up and supported her so that her head could rest against his shoulder. Once he was sure that she was comfortable, he returned his attention to his mother.

"What do want to talk to her about?"

"Private matters, Fitzgerald. Haven't I taught you better than to inquire about that which does not concern you?"

He was too frustrated with her antics to play into them.

"Mother, I am showing a lot of trust in you by even bringing them here. Don't –"

"Threatening me now, are you?" Eleanor scoffed. "You might be President, but know that there are people in this world to whom you will still pay mind."

"And know for yourself that getting to meet your granddaughter was a privilege. How today goes will determine whether or not you get to see her again in the future."

"Again with the threats, I see? If your father was here…"

Fitz felt a cold sweat sweep down his spine. He pressed his daughter a bit tighter to his chest for a reason that he wasn't quite sure of. All he knew was that he suddenly felt like she was in danger.

"But father's _not_ here right now… which is why _I_ _am_," he warned.

"You can't imagine, Fitzgerald, that he isn't going to find out about a half-black granddaughter soon enough?"

Hearing his mother's words struck a suspicion in him.

"You were going to warn her about him. That's why you wanted to talk to her."

"Well, someone must. I presume that you haven't discussed the matter with her. I might not know her as intimately as you do, but I know enough to say that the Great Olivia Pope would not be here today if she was fully aware of the danger that she was putting herself and her child in."

"If there is, in fact, danger in being here, then why did you encourage me to bring them?"

"What kind of grandparent wouldn't want to meet their newest grandchild?"

"The kind that your husband will be once he finds out about her. Which you already know. So why did you still want them to come out here?"

Eleanor Grant smiled, albeit painfully. "Selfishness, I suppose. Like I said, I wanted to meet her."

Now it was Fitz's turn to don the painful smile. "No mother, you're not selfish. There are a lot of things that I could say about you – that I _have_ said about you – but you're not selfish. That's father. When it comes to your kids, you're selfless - annoyingly so - which in turn leads to you becoming too invested in their lives."

"You know your mother well, Fitzgerald. It warms this old heart of mine," she said and then chuckled.

"I know enough," he agreed, finally giving her the first genuine smile since his arrival.

Sometimes they were able to get down to this, after they had gotten all of the scheming, grudges, and under-handedness out of the way. They had their moments when they would briefly stop treating their relationship like a business deal and instead how a normal bond between mother and son should be.

"I'll send Olivia out," he said after the heartfelt moment had played itself out appropriately.

"Oh, you mean that I'm not forbidden from talking to her?"

"No, you're not," he answered. "Just don't talk to her about father. She doesn't need to know anything about him right now."

"I suppose that it's all as well… I had other things I wanted to discuss with her, anyway," Eleanor responded with a quick wink.

Fitz sighed in exasperation. This woman never stopped.

"Remember my warning to you. I mean what I said. _Don't _hurt her."

"Yes, yes," the older woman dismissed with a few waves of her hand.

"I'll be in my old room," he announced and then turned to leave with a babbling McKenna in tow.

He was stopped by his mother's sugary sweet tone.

"Oh! But I think that you'd rather be going to Anya's room, dear. That is, if you still desire to retrieve that 'item' from her that you needed?"

Fitz thought about responding, but then just as soon turned his back and walked away. With her head nestled in the pocket of his shoulder, McKenna mewled away. He turned and kissed her on the temple as an apology for subjecting her to the likes of the woman whom she would from now on recognize as 'grandmother'.

"You're not going to ask how I know about your little 'item'?" he could hear Eleanor call after him.

"To be surprised by you knowing about my dealings with Anya would only amount to insulting myself. But to answer your question, no. I don't have the energy to attempt to pry the answer out of you, mother."

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With Olivia and McKenna left to Eleanor's devices – only by earnest request did he leave the infant with her mother and grandmother - Fitz was meandering down one of the upstairs halls of his childhood home. He had the easiest of strolls going, trying to familiarize himself once again with his old surroundings, when suddenly happening upon a slightly ajar door to one of the guest bedrooms. He immediately stopped and he pushed on the stark white wood. The door gave way without a sound, revealing a remarkably picturesque scene.

He had been inside of this room quite a few times when he was younger. The custard walls and the varying brown accents were all familiar to him; however, the room still managed to have an _unfamiliar_ air about it. It could have had something to do with the fact that he hadn't visited this home for months, this room for even longer. The sprawling drapes for the lone bay window were meticulously pinned back and Fitz noted how the sunlight bathed the interior in a white, almost heavenly light. It made the room calm, pristine.

"Mr. President, sir! Please, come sit!"

Fitz sidled up to the bedroom's only occupant – other than himself of course. Anya was seated in a rocking chair in the back corner of the room, gently swaying back and forth and frowning down at her needlework in concentration. Folded on the foot of the meticulously made bed was what appeared to be a freshly finished work of hers. He took the liberty of sitting right beside it.

"You don't have to call me by my title, you know," he began with a smile.

"I do know, but I call you by it anyway. I am very proud of you… Besides, you don't let me call you Mr. Fitzgerald. What choice have I?"

Even after more than four decades of living in the United States, Anya somehow managed to retain her thick Russian accent. She utilized the same diction that she had when Fitz was a child and he found it endearing.

"What if, as the President of the United States, I ordered you to call me Fitz?"

"You won't do that, Mr. President. If you same sweet boy I look over since little baby, then I know you won't do that…"

"You're right," he agreed and smiled softly at her. He fingered the edges of the folded up parcel beside him, then peered over at Anya. She was already lost again in her work. "May I look?" he asked.

The older woman's hands dropped in her lap. She delivered Fitz a stern, reprimanding look. "What you suppose?"

"You know I have to ask first. It's how you and my mother raised me."

"Oh," she scoffed, "Now of course you can look at it! Is part yours, no?"

"It _used_ to be…" he murmured to himself as he unfolded the sprawling material.

The older woman looked on over the top rim of her glasses as her old ward inspected her work. She was able to discern a bit of a pensive grin warming his face as he moved down the abysmal fabric. The further down that his eyes traveled, the wider his smile would get.

"To your liking, Mr. President?"

Anya figured that his reason for not answering was because he was so absorbed in her latest work.

"That beautiful little girl at breakfast… It for her, no? I make it for her because she is yours?"

Fitz tore his eyes away from the creation that he was holding up and gaped at his old caretaker. He almost caught himself giving her the routine answer – a lie – because he had been so programmed to keep his little girl a secret. But staring into Anya's warm, maternal eyes reminded him that she was one person of whom he did not need to be wary. It was refreshing.

"So you mean that my mother _is_ the only woman with the uncanny ability to declare a child's paternity upon first glance? Good to know," he joked easily. Then he finally answered with a great deal more seriousness, "She's mine... I'm a lucky man."

"I know all along, Mr. President," the older woman assured in her blocky English. "But as you say, 'I raised to ask first'."

Fitz chuckled.

"She look just like you as baby, but also look a lot like mother… More her shape, but more your color."

"I mostly see her mother when I look at her, which is exactly how I've always dreamed she'd look."

"You definitely get dream come true, Mr. President….," the older woman agreed. She suddenly stopped her rocking. "But tell me – the mother – is she yours too? In different way?"

Fitz smiled smugly. "She is… even though, if you asked her, she'd probably say differently."

"She just not know yet?" Anya offered.

"No, I think she does. She just _isn't ready to accept it_ yet. She's a fighter... One of her employees even refers to her as a gladiator." He laughed.

"A _gladiator_!" Anya marveled, taking up rocking again and smiling down at her work.

"Yes, a gladiator," Fitz answered more to himself than to his company.

"You really like her, this _Ms. Gladiator_; I can tell by way you talk about her."

"I make it that obvious, huh?"

Anya only chuckled to herself.

"What new Ms. Grant name?" the older woman asked after a pregnant pause, her tone casually inquisitive.

Fitz felt his heart leap.

"McKenna," he answered. He didn't have the heart to correct Anya on her surname, more out of respect for his own feelings than those of the unknowing maid.

"Ms. Muh-kennuh…," Anya was trying on her tongue, but Fitz wasn't really hearing her.

His mind was already being transported back to a different day, a different time that this exact moment reminded him of…

…**..**

_It was newly dusk in Washington D.C. and Fitz was tucked away inside the nursery in Olivia's apartment. The fixer herself was taking a bath in preparation for bed and, since they had mutually agreed to put an end to any romantic involvement between them, Fitz was not joining her but rather visiting with their still very much awake daughter. They were sitting together on the room's wooden rocking chair with only the moon to light them. McKenna's cashew-hued skin was still moist from her post-bath ritual and as the starlight danced across her tiny features, Fitz found himself mesmerized._

_Olivia had dressed their daughter in a soft gray onesie - not the pajamas but the cotton basic. The fabric was completely clean and, exactly like everything else that Olivia Pope owned, it was simple. There were no designs on it, except for the red, white and blue logo stamped onto the front. The words "Grant: For the People" were emblazoned in white across his daughter's chest along with the silhouette of an elephant painted in the background. It was a small gesture on Olivia's part, one to which he knew that she had probably not given too much thought, but it pleased him all the same._

_It had been decided long before McKenna was even born that she would not have his last name. _People would know_, were Olivia's exact words, to which he had quickly retorted, _Why shouldn't they? _Even as he asked that question all that time ago, he knew its answer. It was obvious why a child fathered by a man as powerful as himself, the product of what the world would only ever see as a cheap affair, could not bear his name. Though, it didn't mean that the situation weighed any less on his heart. _

_Upon the first sign of consent from Olivia, he would do it. He would give his little girl his name. He would always be waiting for the moment that Olivia would finally say that she was ready, or the day that McKenna could say it for herself – whichever came first. Until then, they had to do what would only protect her._

"_Whenever you're ready, pretty girl," he whispered to her._

_He kissed the top of her damp head and immediately, the smell of powder flooded his nostrils. It was also accompanied by another scent, one that Fitz had only ever been able to describe as "Olivia". He leaned down and made a show of sniffing her hair again._

"_You smell like your mother," he marveled._

_His words elicited a soft coo from the baby in his lap. He took it to mean: "Do you really think so?"_

"_Don't worry, sweetness. That's a good thing," he assured her with a smile and wink._

_McKenna maintained eye contact with him and began what soon became a series of sighs and babbles. Fitz was convinced from her differences in intonation that she was introducing a new topic of conversation. From the length of her speech, he figured that she was relaying some kind of lengthy information to him – perhaps how her day was._

"_Oh really?" he occasionally added in._

_Every so often, a squeal would happen to follow right after - which, in his mind, meant: "Yes, daddy! Really!"_

_Fitz didn't realize that the conversation had ventured away from the events of her day until he noticed how her round eyes were no longer looking into his own. They were instead fastened on a part of his anatomy that was a little ways south of his shoulder. He watched as McKenna's eyes took on a glazed-over, captivated expression. Then, she was suddenly stretching her little arms out. _

_Fitz looked toward where she might have been reaching and remembered the flag pin that he frequently wore on his lapel. He also noticed the hint of intrigue in the infant's eyes._

"_You like my pin?"_

_Fitz was answered with a prolonged stare._

"_And here I thought that you actually liked me for _me_… I'm wounded."_

_Nevertheless, he removed the gold adornment and quickly fastened the sharp inserter away before offering it to the awe-inspired infant in his lap. McKenna froze at the start, ogling the pin as if asking herself "Is this really happening?" before finally attempting the grab. It took her a few tries, but with a little concentration, she finally secured it in her tiny fist. She was also rewarded for her troubles with a kiss on the temple from her father._

_She gave a short little cry after observing her new treasure. "What is this?"_

"_It's the American flag, sweetness. It's very meaningful, but I know that you probably can't understand just how much right now."_

_Her mineral gray eyes glowed with fascination and performed what were tiny, nearly indiscernible darts from side to side as she acquainted herself with what her father had told her was the American flag. Fitz watched as the determined infant, at only three-months-old, tried to derive her own meaning from the symbol in her hand. He decided to help her._

"_Hey, pretty girl…," he called softly._

_She remained staring at the pin._

"_Do you want to keep it? You can do daddy a favor by taking care of it for him."_

_McKenna began cooing to herself. Fitz took it as her consent and kissed her on the roundest part of her rosy cheek._

_He knew that Olivia would enlist one - of what he was sure were many - of her ex-con friends to kill him if he gave McKenna something that she could possibly choke on or prick herself with, so he thought of a safe way for her to keep her new trinket. Fitz lifted the infant off his lap, stood, and hugged her to his chest. Together, they walked to her crib._

"_Which one's your favorite?" he asked her, panning over the small group of stuffed animals on top of her sheets._

_He picked up the little brown bear that he had seen her with a few times before. He was only ever allowed to visit her at night and, between his presidential duties and her sleep schedule, the time he spent with her was often brief – definitely not enough for him to learn her favorite toy. His hope was that whichever animal he bestowed his pin upon would become her favorite anyway, because it would remind her of her father._

"_How about this one?" he suggested to her. "He seems worthy enough to wear it for me."_

_The three-month-old gave an affirmative squeal._

_Fitz set her down in her crib so that he could fasten the adornment to the bear's chest. He handed the toy to her once it was ready and her tiny fingers immediately stroked at the gold surface. _

_She gave another squeal of delight. _

"_You're welcome," he answered her. "I know it's not much of a gift though..."_

_He suddenly looked at the aloof baby with a seriousness that Fitz knew probably only confused her. He just really wanted the importance of his next words to resonate with her – or as much as they possibly could with a three-month-old infant. He adopted a hushed tone when he began speaking to her._

"_I've convinced your mother to bring you to Santa Barbara next month. There, you can finally have your real present._

_He watched as she just stared up at him, her tiny pink mouth popped open in a perfect "o"._

"_It's something that, as a Grant, I hope you'll be able to appreciate someday."_

**...**

Fitz looked down once again at the intricate masterpiece in his lap. Then he looked at Anya.

"Do you think she'll like it?"

The older maid didn't even bother looking up from her work. The answer was simple.

"I haven't met a Grant that _hasn't_, Mr. President."

.

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**A/N:** Alright, I know that I already left a note before the story, but I just really wanted to clarify a few things. First off, I should warn all of you that this story will only get increasingly dramatic, like non-stop CRAZINESS is headed you readers' way! So don't take these events too seriously. I just really have fun with surreal plots. Second, I've gotten a few questions – though not as many as I initially anticipated - regarding how the characters ended up at present time and how the Olivia/Fitz relationship stands. All I can say for now is to be patient with this lowly writer. The answers will come bit by bit. (Because I'm dramatic like that, yes!) Okay and last thing before this note gets to an even more obscene length, you all might have noticed the lack of Olivia POV in this chapter. You'll be getting more of her inner thoughts/workings as the story goes on. It's just so tempting to write Fitz! Haha!

Anywho! This thing is getting nearly as long as the story part of this update so I'm peacing out! If you have any questions please feel free ask. Should next chapter works out the way I intend, then it will be ALL Fitz/Olivia/McKenna. So something to look forward to I hope! Okay, I'm really done this time. :)


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